


acts of service

by starlatine



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Angst, Heartfelt Blowjobs, M/M, Post-Blind Betrayal, Side Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlatine/pseuds/starlatine
Summary: He wants, sorely, to punch something, but that’s one more item for the list of things his current lack of power armour has taken the joy out of.After the events of Blind Betrayal, Danse and the Sole Survivor head to Covenant.





	acts of service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irusu/gifts).



> Dear Irusu: I bookmarked your letter before assignments even went out, so I was really excited to be assigned to you! This fic spun way out of control and I think the story it was really trying to tell would require many, many more thousands of words than I was practically capable of producing within the time constraints. I hope it's satisfying enough on its own and thank you so much for your inspiring prompts.
> 
> A content warning and some notes:  
> \- It's not enough to justify a tag, IMO, but there's some borderline suicidal ideation at points here, of the passing thought "things would be easier if I were dead" variety. Nothing more explicit than that, but I thought it deserved a warning.  
> \- One of my biggest issues with FO4 is how various companions' dialogue or approval changes don't change throughout the game, especially in the case of Danse, who has the same reactions to things synth-related before and after the big reveal. I eventually arrived at the idea of rewriting the [Human Error side quest](http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Human_Error) as a vehicle for exploring some of your prompts around Danse and his synthdom. As such, this fic is mildly canon-divergent in terms of the way things with Danse play out after Blind Betrayal (because in the game, they don't really play out... at all. #notoverit)  
> \- You said you played your M!SS as a misanthropic loner, which I tried to write, seeing as that's usually my wheelhouse, but at some point in the writing process that turned into... whatever we have here. Just so you know, I gave it my best shot!
> 
> Thanks so much to A for the betas, plural. You're a rockstar.

The compound smells like death, and by the time they're through with it, it looks like it too.

Before they set off for Covenant, Nate had taken one look at him in the X-01 suit he’d dug out of storage at the bunker and told him to get out and put some settler civvies on over his jumpsuit. ("Nice rig. Never seen one of those before, even at Anchorage. Gonna have to leave it behind for this one, though. I need backup, but it's an undercover sort of thing. Experimental next-gen power armour, not so much.") This makes it completely his fault that irradiated water from the sewer drains they had to crawl through to get into the compound is currently soaking through Danse’s clothes and dripping down to mingle with the blood and matter on the floor. He hasn’t gone into combat naked in years; the Brotherhood doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks. He understands the justification for blending in with the locals on a recon mission, but it doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it.

Especially since this mission had proven to be more than recon. As always, Nate was slim on the details at first: “something he had to take care of” involving a missing girl and a suspiciously well-maintained settlement. Covenant’s strange entrance quiz and abundance of turrets gave Danse a bad feeling right away. They spent a day and a night there, pressing the twitchy settlers for information. The trail, once it emerged, led them all the way out here. The operation is high-budget, judging by the number of guards. It’s been duck-and-reload ever since they emerged through the drains. Hostiles on all sides, Nate on his six: it’s the routine they’ve been practicing since the day Nate stumbled out of the fog at Cambridge. Charming civilians for information is beyond him, but this, Danse can do. Thankfully, none of the guards are very good shots.

He estimates that the whole compound takes them about three hours to clean out. He isn’t the one with a Pip-Boy, however, and the lack of natural lighting makes it harder to tell. His mind clears into the comforting wash of battle. Every surface is faintly damp from the airborne moisture, and it seeps into his flimsy cottons enough to chill. Ballistics ricochet off the walls, and the chambers keep all fire, laser or otherwise, echoing enough to blow his hearing almost completely. Not enough, unfortunately, to drown out the tinny recordings Nate picks up on the way: the scientists ask their nonsensical questions in cool tones, and the suspected synths plead for their lives. The guards continue crashing upon them in waves from behind the compound’s labyrinthian corners, too fast for him to process the holotapes’ content besides a general sense of revulsion that sweeps through his body, separate from the carnage around them. He and Nate keep cover behind overturned desks and under steel walkways, their sides brushed up against each other. They’ve been doing this for long enough that while Danse still calls out tactical directions out of force of habit, Nate just communicates through a variety of borderline-incomprehensible hand gestures. Now and then, they pass each other ammo relieved from corpses, fusion cells pressed into Danse’s sweaty palm in exchange for .308s. At one point, Danse glances over at him just in time to see him pull off a perfect headshot on a guard Danse can barely make out, and the sight of such deadly precision sends a thrill through some sick place inside his chest. 

After endless rounds of load, shoot, crouch, Danse takes the stalwart last defender out with a laser burst to the chest. His thighs burn from staying in a crouch for hours without the added support of power armour, so he’s unsteady on his feet when the compound finally falls silent and the two of them stand up. One doorway remains, its door ajar, but no one comes rushing out. Unease traces through his stomach. He speaks in an undertone: “This far and no sign of the caravan. I don’t like it.”

Nate grunts, "Doesn't bode well, as these things go," slides his rifle into its sling on his back, pulls his handgun, and walks right through the doorway. Danse huffs, reflexively checks his ammo, and follows at his heels.

The room is a cellblock like the ones at the old Cambridge police station, but the space in the middle is full of work stations, charts, and terminals. Medical equipment smeared with suspiciously-coloured stains litter the desks. Danse scans for mines or tripwires and comes up with nothing, but he immediately spots a young woman cowering in the far cell. For a moment, their eyes meet and Danse is the one to turn away.

In the centre of the room stands a woman in a pristine lab coat, apparently unarmed. She’s small, and would be unintimidating but for the silver goggles that give her face an alien look, like some previously undiscovered mutant insect. Danse is glad that he can’t see her eyes. She doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, just addresses Nate in a flat and unsurprised tone. No doubt the villagers sent word ahead warning of the threat, for all the good it did them. “So the one investigating Stockton’s caravan has arrived. Do you even know that his supposed daughter is in all likelihood a synth?”

Danse glances back at the cell. The Stockton girl, presumably. She’s dirty, her clothes tattered, and she’s pressed her entire body against the far wall as if to avoid being noticed. Everything about her signifies weakness. The screams and begging of the test subjects on the holotapes rush through his mind, and a shiver runs down his spine.

Chambers takes Nate’s lack of interruption for invitation, and she begins to make the case for the entire project, her speech eloquent and punctuated by expansive hand gestures. Perhaps she thinks it’ll be enough to buy her life. Eggheads who are too smart for their own good have plenty to answer for, so he takes everything she says with a grain of salt. Danse respects people like Proctor Quinlan, who’ve turned their skills towards a nobler cause, but he doesn’t understand them.

Adrenaline still courses through his system, now being joined by suppressed pain from injuries that is just now coming to the surface. He shifts his weight from side to side, listening with one ear as she talks about her childhood in Diamond City and other irrelevancies. The only way out is the way they came in. Residual blood and bodily fluids cover most surfaces. The place is a slaughterhouse. Nate never told him why they were going to Covenant in the first place or what they were hoping to get out of all of this; even so, they’ve fought their way to this woman and a room with one exit, and Danse doubts that everyone is going to walk away.

He can see the muscles working away in Nate’s jaw when she mentions performing autopsies. “You’ve said your piece. I’m not leaving without the girl. _Alive,_ mind.”

“Then you’ll just have to kill me,” she says, and Nate’s drawn and fired before Danse’s finger meets his own trigger. He spares a fleeting thought that she dies like a soldier, making a last stand for her ideals despite being hopelessly outmatched. Even so, she crumples to the floor, where she really does just look like an old woman in a lab coat. The glasses obscure her face, make it hard to tell her real age. The compound is now totally silent but for the ringing in his ears.

Danse no sooner holsters his rifle and calls out to go weapons-cold than Nate steps towards the terminal that controls the cell block. His body moves forward of its own accord; he grabs Nate's upper arm, to which Nate makes no obvious response. “Kni—Nate. With respect, should we just let her go?”

Nate turns and looks at him coolly, his face illuminated acid-green by the terminal screen. “After all that, you want to leave her in there?”

Danse furrows his brow. “Obviously these people are both deceitful and dangerous, and their project unscrupulous. But we have no way of knowing they weren't right about her. Should we return her to her family for the caps, regardless of whether or not she's even their daughter?”

“What would you suggest we do, Danse?” Nate's voice is mild, but Danse knows him well enough to sense when his patience is dwindling. Danse frantically searches for a diversion, something to salvage the whole mission; his eyes dart around the room, devoid of any salvage worth the spent ammo, but comes up with nothing. He grinds his teeth. Nate turns back to the terminal, and after a few keystrokes Danse hears the click of lock mechanisms opening around the room.

The girl—if that's what she is—hesitates before stepping out of the cage, eyeing the two of them warily. Danse turns away and does a circuit of the room, searching for any supplies worth their carry weight. He might as well make himself useful. Nate speaks to her, gruffly and quickly, and Danse ignores them.

Despite having to step over bodies, the way out of the compound is, as always, faster than the way in.

—

Danse despises being underground enough that he welcomes the sight of murky river water. The sun sets on the horizon, getting earlier each day, and the wind blows cold. The Commonwealth in autumn is even less forgiving than the Capital Wasteland. The girl shivers when they start to wade through the drainage pipe, but otherwise doesn't complain. Nate takes point and Danse guards the rear. He keeps an eye on the skies for rainclouds; he’d take the painstaking labour of getting rainwater out of power armour joints before they rust over trudging around with hair in his face like a wet molerat.

They give Covenant a wide berth. After an hour or two, they reach one of the safe houses Nate has set up inside of otherwise unremarkable decrepit cabins across the Commonwealth. Nate tells the girl to hang back at a safe distance, and he and Danse disarm the various mines and booby traps with the efficiency of professionals. Before they go back out, Danse pulls Nate aside, hastily retrieving his hand from Nate's jacket as soon as he realizes he's grabbed it.

“Where are we dropping the girl?”

Nate looks down at his jacket, then Danse’s hand, then back to his face. “Bunker Hill. Day or two from here on foot.”

Danse nods, opens his mouth, and finds himself at a loss for anything to say further. “Understood.” Nate beckons the girl inside with a curt wave, and Danse announces, mostly to himself, that he's going to secure the perimeter. His command tone rings through the room like the clang of an empty barrel. As an afterthought, he turns around to leave his bedroll behind for the girl; he’s still wired from the fight and he usually takes first watch, anyway. Someone might as well make use of it.

The moon is waxing full, and after a patrol that he admits to himself may have been longer than necessary he comes to rest with his back to the arch of the shack's doorway, rifle on his lap. The night is clear and well-lit, and he can’t help but take turns between watching the wastes outside and observing the sleeping forms on the floor.

Nate sleeps facing the doorway, with one hand on the butt of his pistol. The man is weathered and scarred enough from battle to pass as a born Wastelander. Even in dreams his forehead is creased, though sleep makes it look more like worry than anger. When he’s conscious, his brows are permanently furrowed. He always looks like he’s both skeptical and squinting against the sun. Danse appreciates his sternness; with Nate, you always know where you stand. He has all of Arthur’s brooding minus the flashes of youthful rage. 

Even so, sleep still shaves a decade off his face. Before, Danse was hesitant to let himself dwell on the rough charm of the man’s expression, though he doubts he’s been particularly successful in keeping his feelings under wraps. Subtlety has never been one of his particular strengths. In the near-darkness, he takes the time to observe the way Nate’s chest moves as he breathes. He lacks the self-control not to watch. There’s no command structure between them anymore, at least not in name. Nate’s fingers twitch in his sleep.

A slight breeze rustles the bare branches of the dead trees. He squints through his scope anyway, making sure there aren’t any enterprising ferals moving through the underbrush. Satisfied, he sets the gun down again, tracing its familiar seams with his thumb. 

A few feet away, the girl sleeps curled in on herself like a child. It’s hard to tell how old she is through the layers of dirt on her skin, but he suspects she can’t be more than twenty. Though he knows, has more proof than anyone, that there's no way to tell from the outside, Danse still watches her for any unusual movements or unnatural breathing patterns. Anywhere the machine reveals its own fabrication. He comes up with nothing. She seems weak and docile; he can’t imagine why the most nefarious organization in the Commonwealth would bother wasting the stem cells and titanium on such a project.

His understanding of synths is based on Brotherhood intel and what he's picked up in the field through countless firefights. The first generation are skeletal, nothing more than metal frames and basic processors. They're barely more advanced than Protectrons, even down to the way they talk. The second gen are a bit more human-like; from a distance, or in the dark, you could mistake one for human. Like the synth in Diamond City, though, all it takes is a good look in the face to realize they're something else.

The Brotherhood wouldn’t have moved into the Commonwealth in force over some glorified Mr. Handys. It’s the third gen synths that keep Arthur awake at night. There's no way to tell the difference without fully disemboweling them, and even then, Danse has never actually seen the proof. He doesn't know what you'd have to look for, or just how far into the body you have to go. Chambers must have known; she said it was four or five false positives to a synth. Four or five autopsies before she found some wires.

All he sees when he looks at his hands are his hands. Scanning through his memories for a place where the pattern breaks is like searching for the horizon through fog.

—

Around two, Nate wakes to change watch. Danse takes Nate’s bedroll, since his own is occupied. It smells like Brotherhood issue soap and the brahmin jerky Danse knows Nate keeps stashed at the bottom of his pack at all times. Over the course of the night, his sleep is as thin as the film of grease and ash that forms on stagnant water. Once the sky has gone full pink, he gives up and starts crumbling the oatmeal from the last of his leftover rations into water. As culinary offerings go, it’s not much, but it’s been keeping him going for years.

He starts and looks up sharply at the sound of Nate clearing his throat. Nate hasn’t made any motions towards leaving his post on the dilapidated porch, but he watches Danse, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something else. Neither says a word. Without thinking much about it, Danse pulls his shoulders back until he’s sitting at attention. A corner of Nate’s mouth lifts. Danse’s face and neck feel warm, and he jams a fork into the pot and places it on the slats of wood between them.

“You should eat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Affirmative,” Nate says, and now Danse knows he’s poking fun at him.

—

They head out about an hour later. Amelia only tries to make small talk with Nate once before she learns her lesson. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything actually rude to her, just walks right past her without acknowledging she's said anything. Her mouth stays open like a fish for a moment, until she coughs and begins fiddling with the hem of her ragged shirt with a patently feigned look of interest. Danse feels a brief moment of affinity with her; he remembers running his first few missions with Nate, back before Danse sponsored him into the Brotherhood. He'd be calling out orders down the hallway while Nate rushed ahead, pistol out and flight helmet goggles covering his eyes. It was like trying to direct a brick wall, except this brick wall had natural combat instincts and never did anything that outright defied Danse's commands, just make a mockery of them by moving with a stealth and grace that Danse has never been able to achieve. Danse is a good soldier—there’s no point to false modesty—but he's heavy cavalry, not infiltration. They make a powerful pair, but he always felt as though their respective ranks were a bit of a joke.

After being brushed off by Nate, Amelia sticks to Danse’s side, which irritates him; he gruffly reminds her that his ability to immediately react to a threat is impaired by having her in such close proximity, but she seems undeterred.

Around midday, as they trudge through some thickets to avoid a known Gunner outpost on the overpass, she asks, “Are you mercenaries?”

“No,” Danse says drily.

“What were you doing in the compound, then?”

“My companion knows your father.” He leaves out, _and decided to spend days and hundred of caps’ worth of ammo on your rescue for reasons I still don’t understand._

There must be something to it as an explanation, since she nods and leaves it there. The weather stays fine, and they make good time, chewing brahmin jerky as they go. Besides a couple mongrel dogs they pick off from 100 yards, nothing troubles them. Even so, there’s no way they’ll make it to Bunker Hill by sundown; once they hit the outskirts of Boston, the concentration of trouble will increase exponentially. They make camp in the old BADTFL building they cleared out a while back, on the hunt for some circuit or other for Haylen. Thankfully, no more raiders have set up shop in the intervening time. The previous gang left enough mattresses for them each to get their own bed. As he pushes desks around to make room on the office floor for them to sleep, Amelia jumps to help.

He coughs. “I assure you, everything is under control.”

She blinks. “Oh, I know, but I thought I should make myself useful. Not much else for me to do, is there?” 

He hadn’t thought of that. They’re inside, so no need to send her looking for firewood. No other menial tasks come to mind, so he thinks of what he does when he’s got extra time on his hands, and asks, “Do you know the basics of weapon maintenance?”

She shakes her head.

Danse squints. “Have you ever shot a gun?”

“A little? You just point, and...” Even through the layer of residual grime on her face, he can tell that she’s blushing.

“Good grief.” Maybe the Capital was different, the Commonwealth softer, but Danse thinks to his own childhood on the outskirts of Rivet City and shakes his head. At least your average scavver can fend for themselves. He sighs and takes his laser rifle out of its holster. “Doing shooting practice here would give away our position, but there’s no excuse not to know your way around a weapon. This is an energy weapon, not the best example to start with—” He looks over at Nate, whose personal gun collection is currently laying next to him as he disassembles his most recent desk fan conquests with a formidable scowl on his face, “—but it’s acceptable.” Danse takes out the small gun kit he’s managed to keep with him throughout his flight from the Prydwen and looks around for a flat surface, eventually grabbing a nearby board. After unsuccessfully trying to wipe off some suspicious stains, he decides to ignore them.

“First rule of weapons maintenance is to never clean a loaded gun.” He pops the canister of fusion cells out into his palm, and his hands go through the rest of the motions almost faster than he can explain them to her. Like the gun he gave Nate after the trouble at Cambridge, he’d built this one custom from the ground up. He doesn’t have any special talent for working with his hands, he just likes it, has pestered Proctor Ingram with questions well past her obligation to answer them. He explains the function of the muzzle focuser and lets Amelia stick the scope, freed from the rail, up to her eye. When he mentions the boosted gamma wave emitter, she asks him some technical questions against which he has to admit his ignorance.

She's quiet, but her mousy hair and inquisitive manner reminds him of something, though it takes him a second to figure it out: when she smiles, she looks a bit like Scribe Haylen.

—

At some point in the early hours—there’s no natural light inside the building, and he doesn’t have a power armour HUD to tell time for him anymore—he feels more than sees Nate get up and leave the room. He does that, rarely sleeping a night through even when they have the luxury to do so. Danse watches him walk away, cherishing the moments before he pulls on the leather duster. He took it off the dead shell of the courser at Greentech Genetics and hasn’t gone without it since. It’s completely maudlin, but it suits him, the stains of battle not showing up on the dark leather. The courser had a similar wolfish look to it as Nate has, but in the moments before Nate settles back into the coat, he just looks like a man. The white shirt he wears under it is threadbare enough to make out the way his shoulder-blades move under the cotton. 

He wants him. It’s no secret. He suspects Nate wants him too, though it’s hard to imagine how Nate would go about it. Methodical patience? Brash displays of control? For his part, he hasn’t been close to anyone like that in a long time. Hasn’t been more than a Paladin to anyone since he arrived in the Commonwealth, maybe even before that. Sometimes when he can’t sleep, his mind goes places he could never describe out loud: he has visions of being at someone’s mercy and forgetting himself completely. Usually, it’s Nate, these days. Sometimes Arthur. Once in a while, horribly, it’s Cutler, looking as human as the day he left for his last patrol. Whatever the specifics, the temporary pleasure is always followed by enough guilt and shame in the morning to keep him from giving himself any opportunities to debase himself in reality.

Even so, Danse can’t resist the impulse to get to his feet and follow Nate, making sure not to disturb Amelia. There’s no reason to stay; he hasn’t slept well since the day he left the Citadel. He arrives in time to see Nate’s legs disappear through the trapdoor to the roof, and after a moment’s hesitation, Danse scales the ladder himself. 

Nate’s waiting for him at the top, arms crossed and hair rumpled from sleep. It makes something twist in Danse’s chest. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I wasn’t very tired,” he lies.

Despite some surface damage, the roof is stable enough, the boards barely giving under their combined weight. There’s a railing between them and the edge, and Danse leans against it, peering down at the city below. It must be nautical dawn; the outlines of buildings below are just barely perceptible. Through thin cloud-cover, he makes out a dark smudge that must be the Prydwen. “This building could be a strong base of operations. The vantage point must be one of the best outside of the old downtown, if you don’t count vertibird transports.” 

“Not a very fair comparison. Lack of propulsion, and all that.”

Danse tsks his tongue, but doesn’t disagree, his mouth traitorously twisting into a smile. The night is chilly, but he’s glad for the cold wind against his face. Maybe it’s the hour, the lack of sleep, the surreality of everything that’s happened over the previous 72 hours, but he opens his mouth before he’s even had the chance to think about what he’s going to say. “I never had the chance to properly thank you for saving me.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not _worried,_ I just need to make sure you understand. Not many would have done what you did for my sake.” He hesitates for a moment, searching for the right words. He’s not like this with anyone else, but even when Nate was still nominally under his command it was as if Nate’s circumspection prompted Danse to disgorge all of the doubts he usually pushes to the back of his mind. Through the layer of irradiated smog that perpetually hangs over Boston, a star streaks across the sky, almost too far away to see. One blink, and he’d have missed it. “I’m not sure what I would have done, were our positions reversed.”

“Not worth thinking about that kind of thing. Doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Maybe you’re right. Even so, I owe you everything.” His mouth is running away with him, but maybe it’s better to rip the bandage off. He owes Nate honesty, at the least. “You’re my brother. My friend.”

Next to him, Nate shifts his arms where they rest on the railing. “Hm. Is that so?”

Danse shuts his eyes for a few seconds, and opens them back up. “I would follow you into Hell. I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. In whatever capacity you’ll have me.”

"Interesting. Been that way for long?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you. All I know is that I don't know what I'd do without you. I haven't been close to anyone in... a very long time. I'm scared of losing you, and confused about how I feel. You know I'm a machine. And yet..." He hasn’t had relations of any kind in years, too busy living and breathing Brotherhood through his devotion to Arthur, duty of care for his team, and hatred of the wider world. It was different with Cutler; they knew each other in Rivet City, joined the cause together—equals, in everything. That was years ago, and Cutler is dead, now, by Danse’s own hand. The Danse that killed him might be dead, too, but that’s too morbid to consider while retaining his sanity. 

"Stranger things have happened. Life is short. Nothing wrong with taking the good things where you can, when there's the opportunity."

He nods, turns his head slightly to check the trapdoor, propped open so they can get back into the building, and Nate laughs. “Relax. She’s not going to wake up.”

"You're right. Of course you're right." He takes a slow breath and lets it out, turns to look Nate in the eye and is taken aback, once again, by the intensity of his gaze, the way it looks right through anything it touches. In the cold air, he can feel the heat of the body next to him even through his clothes.

"I’ll admit, there were times I thought I was imagining there was anything going on here, you being a responsible Paladin and all.”

“Not anymore.” His voice comes out strangely raspy. He feels as though he ought to do something, paralyzed by the conflicting desires to close the distance between them and run away. He sorely wants to—do _something_ , put pressure on the wound, make a decision that can’t be reversed. It’s not fear of rejection that holds him back, a voice in the back of his mind suggesting this is all some kind of programming glitch, his processes fixing on the nearest available source for orders now that he’s been cast off by not one but two different high commands. 

“Indeed.” Nate reaches up and brushes a few stray strands of Danse’s hair back into place away from his face, then digs his fingers into the rest of it, just barely tugging it one way and then the other, and Danse lets his neck go slack, turn along with it. He blinks and runs his tongue across his bottom lip, still split and chapped from worrying it between his teeth as he waited at the listening post for judgment. The expression on Nate’s face is curious, as though he’s filing what he’s seeing away for further examination. The hair on the nape of his neck stands up from the intensity of it. Slowly but steadily it’s getting brighter, but the world has shrunk to the two of them, separate from everything else. “You could say I've gotten a little fond of you. Don't go around telling people, now.”

Quietly, trying not to disturb the fragile thing between them, he says, “Off the record. Got it.”

Nate slides his hand out from Danse’s hair, lingering a little too long on the back of his neck, and Danse knows instantly he’ll be returning to the memory of the feeling for the rest of the day. “And they said you didn’t have a sense of humour.” 

—

First light comes before long, and they head onto the road before the neighborhood raiders have the chance to crawl out of bed. Even from a distance, they can spot the monument at Bunker Hill from a few hours away. Amelia’s shoulders sag in relief when Danse points it out to her from amid the skyline. Danse has never been there, but it was noted on the Brotherhood’s constantly-evolving map of the Commonwealth. Since the Prydwen arrived, aerial recon has become one of the Brotherhood’s top priorities. They’d had Covenant marked down there, too, along with the rest of the major settlements; besides Diamond City, though, they were just dots on a map. Arthur had better things to do than be concerned with the minutiae of civilian commerce.

The way between is dense cityscape, even more full of raiders and mutants than the wasteland they’d been moving through for the previous days. The going is slow. Amelia walks beside him; he’s given up on trying to get her to stay in formation.

Even so, they reach the settlement by noon; the guard opens the gate up as soon as he sees them. Danse assumes it’s because of Amelia, but the man nods at Nate in a distinctly familiar way. The whole settlement, like Covenant, is barricaded much more heavily than a small-tatoes settlement strictly deserves, but a glance around the square reveals several different weak points a targeted assault could breach.

The people look like transients; caravan folk, mostly, including a junk seller hanging around the that can’t be older than sixteen. The sight of them gives him a moment of nostalgia for his days in Rivet City, before he remembers that never happened either. For a moment, he feels nauseous, but he’s distracted by Amelia taking off at a run towards a sharply-dressed man leaning against one of the stand counters. “Dad!”

The man’s face is hard to read beneath his beard, but he takes his hat off and pulls her into an embrace with one arm. “Look at you,” he says, in measured tones. “You look like you’ve been molerat wrestling out there.”

He can’t hear what she says next, her face pressed into his jacket, but Danse can see her shoulders shake—from laughter or tears, he doesn’t know. Stockton’s gaze is incredibly fond, and the smile doesn’t leave his face even when he turns to look up at Nate.

“You’ve done it again, my friend. I’m in your debt.”

Nate shrugs a shoulder. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to collect.” Danse looks between the two of them, trying to remember if he’s seen the old man before. Not that he can remember. The niggling sense of being out of the loop that’s dogged him since he left the listening post settles uneasily in his gut.

—

Both Amelia and Old Man Stockton insist they stay the night in Bunker Hill. To his surprise, Nate doesn’t object. The mystery-meat stew they’re served is a vast improvement over rations, and it’s been awhile since Danse’s had much else. He refuses the whisky being passed around, but consumes an amount of Nuka-Cola that can only be described as excessive.

After the dishes have been cleared, Nate and Stockton step into another room to talk; Danse starts washing up, and Amelia appears at his elbow with a drying rag. “Where are you guys headed after this?”

“I don’t know yet.” Through the wall, he can faintly hear the pack brahmin mooing away. Combined with the sound of dishes, it’s oddly domestic.

“He calls the shots, I guess.”

“These days, yes.”

“It’s probably obvious, but I’m really grateful that the two of you got there when you did.”

He watches the grime slide off the chipped ceramic into the dirty water, his hands covered up to the elbows in suds. “They all deserved it. Scum like Chambers who think science is an excuse to play God are what got humanity into this mess.”

She hums. “I guess. Really, though. You saved my life, so thanks. Some people would’ve left me there and come home with my clothes to prove I was killed... you know how it is. So anytime you need a place to stay around here, just knock.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” The sound of her snort is profoundly satisfying.

Together, they make short work of the kitchen. As soon as they finish, Amelia goes to bed, and Danse tries to give himself a shave with a straight-razor in the dirty mirror in the spare room Stockton gave he and Nate for the night. It’s small, just a bed and a window with a missing pane, but comfortable. He nicks himself a few times, and he leans in close, pulling gently at the small wounds as if he’ll see wires coming through. If field medicine and full-body scans couldn’t uncover the truth, nothing like this is going to, and yet he can’t bring himself to pull away until Nate enters the room.

They strip out of their outer layers in silence with the casually averted gazes of people who grew up in barracks. The air simmers with something electric; it’s not lost on Danse that this is the first time they’ve had to themselves since the previous night on the roof. The mattress is wide enough they’ll both be able to fit, but only just. Danse sits on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, chin-in-hand, and watches Nate fold his clothes in a neat pile on the floor next to the bed. Just how charmed he is by this is probably written on his face, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The room, like the rest of the house, is cozy yet practical. He pulls at a loose string on the sheet with his free hand, absently. “I can’t believe those Covenant people thought the girl was a synth.”

Without looking up at him from his neat arrangement of personal effects, Nate says, “She is.”

Danse doesn’t process what he’s heard for several seconds, and even when he does, it doesn’t quite land. “How the hell could you know that.”

“Stockton told me.” At that, Nate looks up at him, gaze unflappable. “The Railroad gave her the works. Mind wipe, fake memories, the whole nine.”

Danse is distantly aware that his mouth is hanging open. He’s very aware of his blood as it surges through his body. “And that’s enough for him? He’ll keep the _thing_ that replaced his child?”

“Guess so.” Nate gets to his feet and leans against the wall behind him, arms crossed nonchalantly.

“How could anyone...”

Nate shrugs. “Would you get it done?”

He’s not sure his brow could crease any more than it currently is. “What are you talking about?”

“The mind job. You’re not about to walk the Freedom Trail, I get it, but I know people. If that’s something you want, we could make it happen for you.”

A few things click into place then, like what he imagines goes on every time Nate works his magic with a bobby pin and a locked door. He always knew Nate had several irons in the fire. Danse had never _lied_ in any of his reports, but he may have selectively omitted certain things on the basis of his gut feeling, which told him that the man was a soldier through-and-through, real command material, despite his surly disposition and general dislike of social engagement of any kind. So it's not a surprise to hear that Nate has at least a passing familiarity with the Railroad and its operatives. This is what the rational part of his brain tells him. The rest has other thoughts: he leaps off the bed to his feet, heart thudding in his chest. “What do you mean, _you know people_.”

“There are people I work with who could give you some answers, if you wanted them. People who’re used to dealing with syn—”

Normally, he would never cut Nate off while speaking, but he can’t stand here and listen to this. “I don't see how they would improve my ability to carry out my duties in any way. Don’t change the subject. This whole time, you’ve been working for the _Railroad?_ That’s why we’re here?"

Nate blinks at him like there’s something obvious he’s not getting. “Is this residual Brotherhood loyalties talking, or have you just decided you’re the only synth worth oxygen?”

He wants, sorely, to punch something, but that’s one more item for the list of things his current lack of power armour has taken the joy out of. “Did you infiltrate the Brotherhood from the start, or just decide partway through that you’d rather sell us out to a bunch of terrorists who value machines over human beings?”

“Bit of both, really.” Nate cocks his head and looks at him with something almost like pity. “You know, I really thought you’d be calmer about this. Considering.”

He looks away from Nate’s face; the entire conversation seems comical, like a dream where everyone he knows suddenly speaks a different language. “I thought you understood how I feel about deception. There’s nothing worse than someone who lies about what they are.”

“I never lied, Danse. You just didn’t want to know.” 

His clothes are in the pile he left them in, and he dresses himself with more force than necessary, trying so hard to move quickly that his hands shake on the clasps of his jumpsuit even more than they did before. He’s ridiculous, this situation is ridiculous, a synth and a garden-variety traitor having a screaming match in their underwear under the roof of a _Railroad agent._ “I’m not going to stand here and listen to your— _excuses,_ ” he finishes lamely, and it’s the awareness he’s losing the battle of words that makes him make for the door in earnest.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Nate calls flatly after him, and he slams it on the way out.

—

Upon emerging from Stockton’s house into the Bunker Hill night, his first thought is that he should’ve picked up the flannel from the floor, because the sun has set and a cold night’s breeze is coming in over the settlement walls. He starts out for the main gate, only watched over by a lone caravan guard at this time of night; the man eyes him with a mixture of suspicion and disinterest. With much difficulty, Danse wrestles his expression into something slightly less murderous and slows his stride to something that he, hopes, reasonably approximates “restless civilian on a night-time walk” rather than “volatile loose synth”. He’s almost at the gate when he stops to consider where, exactly, he plans on going.

There’s always the listening post, but his good gun and all his supplies are up in the room with Nate; he’d never make it out of Boston without them. He turns around in front of the gate, walking back the way he came and trying to make it look natural. Thankfully, most of the town is in bed. He can’t go back up there so soon. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t trust himself, doesn’t want to grovel and knows he’s not going to receive an apology. Not for the first time, he considers how much easier things would be if he’d just turned himself in aboard the Prydwen when Haylen gave him the news. Perhaps then Arthur would have deigned to execute him by his own hand, instead of sending Danse’s own protégé to do Arthur’s dirty work. In this universe, former-Paladin Danse is quickly consigned to the records of the scribes and the mess-hall whispers of initiates as an abomination in their midst who, at least, came to a noble end.

However, the will to live continues to triumph beyond reason. He turns on his heel and paces back around the dark settlement, looking out for somewhere out of sight to hide while he considers his next move. The barn has an open overhang to keep the rain out, so he ducks underneath it to regroup in the shadows. Like most of the bigger settlements, there’s a spot for caravans to post up their brahmin overnight. It’s mostly empty; the only beast there is the one belonging to the young junk collector he saw when they arrived in town. It turns one of its heads at him, lazily blinking, and he narrows his eyes at it. The animal returns his sentiment and turns back to its dinner.

Back in the Capital Wasteland, before the Brotherhood, he and Cutler had a brahmin. One of them would stay in Rivet City, minding the junk stand, and the other would take it out scavenging for new supplies. The Commonwealth creatures are a bit heavier, no doubt due to the harsher winters, but otherwise, all brahmin look the same. Strangely soft eyes, even though the rest of their skin is red and ugly, a living testament to the crimes of science. Without really thinking about it, he extends a hand; it turns one of its heads back to sniff him, and apparently finding him human enough to tolerate, it nuzzles him in search of a scratch. Against his better judgment, he indulges it.

Nowhere to go, no high command to change the terms of the mission, no mission at all. Nothing here for him, nothing to be gained by running away. His eyelids are heavy, the adrenaline having finally deserted him, leaving him feeling exhausted and hollowed out rather than righteously angry. Exhaustion hits him like a wave, and without really thinking about it, he makes his way back to Stockton’s house; he sits on the back porch, under the cover of the awning, and his thoughts slide into incomprehensibility almost immediately.

—

The sun breaks early, and he wakes with a crick in his neck from sleeping at a bad angle and a sweeping sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Thankfully, he managed to make it through the night without being shaken by any particularly attentive caravan guards; he decides not to push his luck any further. There are enough problems on his plate right now besides being taken for drifter rabble in earnest. His whole body feels sore, as if bruises from the firefight a few days past are only just making themselves known. 

The only option in front of him is to go back inside to find Nate—not to grovel, or to apologize, but to demand the truth and offer him the chance to explain himself. Something in him churns at the thought of it, residual guilt at losing his temper mixed with the still-fresh sting of betrayal. 

He straightens his posture, shoulders back and jaw set, at attention for his reckoning, and heads back around and through the front doorway of Stockton’s house. Once inside, he inhales, exhales, and only then notices that the dark corner of the ground floor that serves as a makeshift kitchen is currently occupied. By Amelia.

She turns to look over her shoulder, hands busy with cooking, and breaks into a smile when she sees him. His stomach sinks; he hadn’t thought about the fact she’d naturally still be hanging around her own house. More oddly, he feels his mouth smile in return, responding to her easy friendliness like there’s nothing unnatural about the situation. Like he’d never found out the truth, and so could still remember her, without suspicion, as the girl from Bunker Hill who got tangled up in trouble that had nothing to do with her.

He clears his throat. “Is Kni—Nate upstairs?”

“You just missed him, actually. He went out just now, didn’t say where he was going.” She turns back to the counter, and slides a handful of only mildly mangy-looking meat into a pan. “I’m making breakfast, want to give me a hand?”

He blinks. “My skills in this area are... minimal.”

"You don't know how to cook?” She turns around fully to face him, her eyebrows up near her hairline. His face heats up. “How have you survived this long?"

"It's never been something I've had to worry about." Hopefully she won't wonder why. Brotherhood Paladins have full enough job descriptions that ration procurement thankfully falls on the quartermaster and relevant initiates.

"Lucky you. Well, never too late to learn. Please tell me you know how to boil water."

"Of course," he says with more confidence than he feels.

“That’d be a start.” He moves around the small kitchen briskly, squinting between the different kinds of rusted cookware until Amelia takes pity on him and grabs one off the shelf, one hand still turning the bits of meat—squirrel?—cooking in a pan over the fire.

“Once it starts bubbling, just put the tatoes in. Take them out when you can poke them easily with a fork. That’s all there is to it, really.”

“Hmm.” It doesn’t take too long for the food to finish cooking. He doesn’t do much more than stand in front of the pot, twirling a fork idly and watching the bubbles form. He mostly avoids getting hit by the backsplash.

Amelia hums tunelessly to fill the silence, and when the tatoes start to get mushy she elbows him out of the way to scoop them out of the water and fry them in the grease next to some mirelurk eggs. It’s the best-smelling thing he’s ever encountered, and when she pushes a pile of it onto a plate and hands it to him, she radiates smugness. “Now you know. Kinda. Really, as long it’s not actually rotten, some hot oil is all you really need to turn the nastiest bottom-of-the-cart slop edible.”

“I see. Well, that was instructive.” Some plastic prewar chairs are tucked away in the corner, and she sits down. He follows, after a moment. When they left the compound, he remembers thinking how weak she looked. That’s not the word he’d use now, watching her command her domain even as her shirtsleeves fail to obscure the scrapes and bruises that still haven’t healed over.

He’d been suspicious of her at first, but dismissed it all because she struck him as hard-working and honest. The Covenant scientists, with their four or five false positives to every match, couldn’t tell. They let _him_ into the town, didn’t they? And here she was, eating eggs as though none of it ever happened. For a fleeting moment, he’s seized by the desire to tell her—something, that she’s a synth, that they both are, that he spent the night outside because indignity and loneliness is easier than constant confusion. He shoves a forkful of tato in his mouth instead.

“Have you asked Nate where you’re going after this yet?” 

“I haven’t,” he says, curtly.

“My father’s always hiring. You should ask if he needs anyone. I mean, if you’re still looking for another job. I’m sure there’s lots to do around here. The woman who runs things here, Kessler, has a deal going with the local raider gang so they don't bother us. Lately, though, we've started having trouble with caravan attacks again. I thought it was them at first, out by Covenant..." She takes a moment to come back to her words. Her hands are steady with the knife and her mouth is a hard line. "My father told me that the gang keeps asking for more caps anyway. It might be nothing, but I get a bad feeling. It's one thing or another. I just wish we didn't have to tolerate it."

He frowns. “Raiders can’t be trusted or domesticated.”

“Obviously,” she says, “but what else are we supposed to do? We’re a stopover for traders, not Diamond City. The Minutemen haven’t really been a thing since Quincy. Everyone here is trying their best. I don’t think there’s anywhere in the Commonwealth where people don’t have to make compromises.”

That, at least, he can’t argue with. 

—

Of course, Nate is there waiting for him with his arms crossed as soon as he’s through the front door of the Stockton house. No time to compose himself or switch gears. Probably for the best.

Nate looks at him nonchalantly. “Have you been up to see the monument yet? There’s hardly ever anyone up there, and the view can’t be beat.”

“Negative. Lead the way, _soldier_.” He told himself he’d be civil, but he can’t resist pronouncing the epithet with more force than necessary. He takes the lead up the spiral stairs, stepping two at a time.

He’s almost dizzy by the time he reaches the top of the monument, but the view still takes his breath away for a moment; it’s not nearly as high, but the only thing he can think to compare it to is the view from a vertibird in flight. He’s never been in one without power armour, though, and half the beauty of it is looking down at the pockmarked surface of the world and feeling impenetrable, knowing he could jump down and hit the ground untouched like the force of justice made flesh and steel. He’s never going to feel that kind of certainty again. Down below, the junk girl packs her cargo back onto her brahmin, ready to hit the road once again. He turns away from the window to look Nate in the eye.

“I don’t want the mind job. I can’t tell which of my memories are real, they all feel real, and there are things I care about. People I care about. I don’t want to forget.”

Nate nods. “Understandable.”

“I meant what I said before. I—I would do anything for you. I would die for you. That’s why I can’t let this go. If I’m entrusting you with the rest of my life, I need to know that trust won’t be broken.”

“I’ve had about enough of people dying, Danse. I don’t want your loyalty. If you want to do me an act of service, put yourself to work living. For yourself, not someone else.”

“You make it sounds so simple,” he mutters, though he knows that’s not the point. The collar of his jumpsuit chafes against the stubble already growing back in on his neck. The level of detail the Institute went into on their creations is astounding. 

“Maybe it is. I’m not your CO, Danse. Never was, actually. I’ll be a part of your life as long as you want, but don’t make me responsible for it. It’s not going to work out for either of us.”

He nods, and forces himself to look Nate in the eye. “I still haven’t forgiven you. I lied to my brothers on your behalf, for months. I don’t take that kind of thing lightly.” There are two conflicting impulses at war inside of him: a need for the world to make sense, and the inexplicable desire to lean into chaos. He wonders, almost clinically, how the gnarled palms of Nate’s hands would feel resting on his cheek.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me for anything. Just try to understand why I did it.” Nate takes a step closer, their faces inches apart. “Do you remember what I said to you, back when... you know. You wanted me to kill you, remember? Got down on your knees, and everything.” His face burns at the memory. If any of his memories seem implanted, that day does; it feels as though his existence was severed, and everything that’s happened since then is happening to someone else. “You only got up when I reminded you that everything you’ve done—though now, you can probably guess how I feel about some of it—has been because you thought you were saving people. Well, yeah, same here. So probably best to agree to disagree, if you can manage it.”

Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t even be having this conversation; he would have turned Nate in to Maxson as a traitor and mourned the loss in private—or at least, that’s what he would have known he _should_ have done. Now, looking back, he’s unsure he would have been able to even then. He no longer has the Brotherhood, but he’s beginning to suspect that, for longer than he’d like to admit, his loyalty has been less than absolute. “I’ll let you know when I’ve made up my mind.” 

“You do that,” Nate says, and it sounds a little contrite. He knows it’s the closest he’ll get to an apology.

He can’t stop looking between Nate’s eyes, mouth, and jawbone. It’s probably obvious from his face, but he still blurts out, “I want to kiss you, also.”

“If that’s what it takes, be my guest,” Nate says, and that blank gaze turns on him with full attention. Some crazed part of his brain prompts that for Nate, this must be an expression of affection. It scalds him, a feeling both painful and purifying.

Later, he blames adrenaline for propelling him to step forward with more confidence than he feels. He pushes forward, backing Nate against the wall. Whatever mechanical parts inside of him control this kind of thing are churning away at full-speed. He misses Nate’s mouth the first time, makes contact with the corner of it, but there’s no turning back now, nothing left to run away from but the force of whatever it is between them. The second time, it’s a proper kiss. Nate’s lips are dry and he slips his tongue into Danse’s mouth with such confidence it makes his blood boil. Nate’s hands land on his neck, one of his thumbs resting over a pressure point, but he doesn’t it dig in, just makes its presence known. Always the threat of violence, but it’s consistent. Another thing he can count on. He’s overly eager and can’t be much good at this, his hands not sure where to land, but desire spreads through his body like blood across cloth.

One of his knees slides between Nate’s thighs while his arms bracket the man against the wall. His hands run over everything, the dark leather of the courser’s coat smooth under his fingers. His body feels like it's going to vibrate into pieces like an engine burning itself out. There's nothing to lie on in a tiny observation chamber at the top of a stone obelisk, but he feels too much urgency to move them back to Stockton's house or anywhere else other than here. Part of him worries his own mind will change, deny himself this brief reprieve from the sense of betrayal that's been with him since the previous night; if he’s honest with himself, it's the same pain and anger that's been there since Haylen came running up to him on the Prydwen. For now, he puts it out of his mind, not gone, just shelved in favour of grasping something that he doesn’t need to second-guess: because that’s the core of it, isn’t it? Despite his better judgement, he trusts Nate. With his life and his heart.

Nate's hands are rough but he can take it. He was built for heavy cavalry, designed—or trained, if the difference means anything—to rush into things head-on. Nate's an inch taller but Danse has 30 pounds on him, so when they shove at each other's clothes there's no clear winner, just a fight not to be left behind.

"I hate these stupid jumpsuits," Nate mutters as his hands fumble for the buckles and Danse laughs breathlessly.

"They serve their purpose. But I take your point."

"Did we lose zipper technology after the war?"

"Buckles offer more of a, ah, tactical function."

"Only you could talk about tactics right now."

The stone walls around them muffle sound, but the irony of their desecrating a monument to the dignity of fallen soldiers isn't lost on him.

"Here, let me—" They pull apart just enough for Danse to push the coat off of Nate's shoulders to the floor where it pools like an oil slick. Without it, he looks small, just a man, not the legend. An image of Nate squinting through his scope as snowflakes fall around him in Alaska flashes through his mind unprompted. It makes his heart swell with something he doesn't want to name.

His face and neck flush, and he blurts out, “I want to suck you,” before he loses his nerve. He's beyond thought, just feeling, and it doesn't terrify him like it should. 

“Oh,” Nate says, “okay,” and then he doesn’t say much else. The autumn morning is crisp and Danse still isn’t wearing enough for comfort—has, in fact, been heading in the opposite direction—so his hands are clumsier on Nate’s belt buckle than he’d like, but he’s started this fight and he’s going to finish it. Danse leaves Nate with all his layers on, just pulls his belt to the side and pulls his pants down his hips enough to free his dick. The stone is cold and none too comfortable under his knees even through the fabric of the jumpsuit, but he welcomes the discomfort; it keeps him together, instead of losing himself in his thoughts. He just takes the head of Nate’s cock in his mouth, being careful not to graze it with his teeth, and tongues slow circles around it.

He’s heavy in Danse’s mouth, heavy and full; Danse almost forgot what that was like. Giving head isn’t difficult, it just takes patience. One of Nate’s hands winds itself in his hair, surprisingly gentle. Danse splays his hands over Nate’s thighs, holding him in place against the wall, and focuses on the pleasant sort of stretch. Nate keeps grabbing at his shoulder with his free hand, kneading with his thumb and Danse isn’t sure if he’s even conscious that he’s doing it. His own hands travel from the backs of Nate’s thighs to the warmth in between them, one of the only parts of the man’s body that could be described as soft, and Danse holds on with enough force that there are red outlines of his fingers when he goes back to palming Nate’s ass.

It takes a while for Danse to get used to it again, but before too long he’s able to get a couple solid inches of Nate’s length inside his mouth, precome leaking onto the back of his tongue. He looks up, and Nate’s head is tilted to the side, his eyes lidded, his hands petting over Danse’s head distractedly. Not rough, just firm. Something to lean his weight into.

It takes some doing, but he manages to get into a rough kind of rhythm, backing off completely and then going back down as far as he can get, punctuated by increasingly staccato upward movements of Nate’s hips, trying to thrust in deeper. By accident, he just barely grazes Nate’s dick with his teeth, and the sound he makes in response seems more turned on than annoyed.

Danse shuts his eyes, lets his cheeks hollow, and his skin thrums with energy, like something inside of him is going haywire, sending rogue electricity through his system. His own breath is like a recording in his ears. Nate’s fingernails dig into his scalp convulsively, and it’s all the warning he gets before he’s coming in his mouth. He swallows most of it, but a bit goes running out of the corner of his mouth and he wipes it with the back of his hand, a thoughtless gesture, but Nate still makes a vaguely scandalized noise. Danse rocks back onto his haunches to give his knees a break, his thighs still aching, but the burn is welcome, familiar, and he’s harder just from that than he can remember being in years. 

His chest heaves in the struggle to regain his breath. Nate slides down the wall, landing close enough their knees could touch. “Jesus. Come here.” 

They never do get the jumpsuit off completely. Nate gets his hand into it while he’s unsteadily perched atop one of Nate’s thighs and the new angle is doing everything; it only takes a few minutes before all of the tension in his body pours out of him at once. They’re limp and stuck together and he can’t muster himself into even finding it gross. He feels loose at the seams, but not lost. That’s the difference, he thinks emphatically, in the part of his brain that never turns off.

“Hidden depths, Danse,” Nate says, his appraising expression undercut by the fact that their noses are still close enough to almost brush. 

Danse rubs a sweaty hand down his own face. “Won’t they wonder where we are?”

“They’re busy people. Probably thinking we ran off to do exactly what we just did, if they’re thinking about it at all.”

He nods, and then, without any conscious thought or anticipation, says, “I’ll stay here for now.” 

Nate turns sharply to look him straight in the face again. “What?”

“First, I’ll retrieve the set of power armour I left at the listening post.”

“Are you _actually_ still pissed that I made you leave it?”

He moves off of Nate’s thigh so he’s sitting on the ground, only their sides brushing. “Hardly. Your reasoning was sound for the mission at hand. However, said mission being over, I’d prefer to have it as a resource.”

“Fair enough.” Nate sits up, rifles through the pockets of his discarded duster, and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it without looking at what his hands are doing. “So you’ve decided, just like that? I should have seduced you months ago, if that was all it took to get you to agree with me.”

“It seems wise that, for the time being, we don’t always travel together. It seems like there’s trouble brewing with some raider gangs, and the settlers are woefully underprepared to defend against any serious attack.” Next to him, Nate takes a drag and ashes onto the floor. In a monument for the military dead. It’s shocking, or it would be if he were shocked. Danse blinks smoke out of his eyes, though the sting doesn’t really hurt, and mutters, “And you did not _seduce me_.”

“Sure, whatever you need to tell yourself to get to sleep at night.” 

Danse bites his lip in an attempt to control his face, crosses his ankles and watches the morning light creep across the stone.


End file.
